


Altruism

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [19]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Phryne and Jack return home from a charity gala, tired after a long week. But some things are irresistible, and Phryne Fisher is one of them.





	Altruism

Mr. Butler had retired for the evening and the house was dark by the time Phryne arrived home, parking the Hispano and turning to Jack with a sly smile. He'd been quiet on the drive, clearly tired; a charity gala would not have been his first choice for ending a long week, she knew, but he'd promised to attend with her and he hadn't let her down. Despite herself, her smile softened into one that was more fondness than sexual intent.

"Are you going into the station tomorrow?" she asked as they headed towards the house arm-in-arm.

"It's my day off," he replied, then paused. "So probably not until noon."

Phryne laughed.

"That should give you a chance to sleep tonight, then," she said, "without leaving me completely unsated in the morning."

She could see just a hint of a smile on his lips, affection and amusement mingling. "Presuming you wake up."

"I'm sure you can provide some incentive," she countered saucily, unlocking the kitchen door then glancing over her shoulder. “If you think you’re up for the challenge.”

The man was remarkably easy to goad; he tilted his head in that endearing way of his, a twitch of his cheek the only hint of his humour. Distracted by his expression, she missed his hand snaking out to grasp her waist and pull her close; she laughed in delight, and he raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll wake Mr. Butler,” he whispered, hand skittering from her waist up her back until it rested on the base of her neck.

“I pay him enough that he won’t mind,” she whispered back, leaning closer as she wrapped her arms around him and tugged him through the door.

“I _am_ feeling peckish.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “Quiet it is.”

They hastily made their way up the back staircase and into her bedroom, where Jack attempted to stifle a yawn.

“Undressed,” Phryne ordered, moving towards her vanity, “then bed.”

Taking a seat, Phryne watched him begin to undress in the vanity mirror before attending to her own—jewels removed, hair brushed, cosmetics cleaned from her face; so engrossed in the nightly routine, she almost missed Jack’s quiet approach. She glanced up, surprised to note he’d dressed in pyjamas. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, she found something unreadable in them.

“Jack?”

“I love you.”

It was never in question, but they rarely put it so simply. She raised an eyebrow in question and he shrugged, stepping closer.

“Tonight… reminded me how fortunate I am,” he said, looking endearingly abashed, his fingers coming to rest at the crook of her neck.

“If I knew my Colombian emeralds would invoke such sentiment I would have worn them before,” she teased; he gave a small smile, but shook his head slightly.

“If I were interested in jewels, Miss Fisher, I saw half a dozen women wearing more than you.”

Some of her peers did have a propensity for quantity over quality, but the dark intensity of his eyes told her something different. 

“The dress then?” she asked, cursing the slight breathlessness of her voice.

His fingers slid across her skin, slipping beneath the strap of her gown and pushing it over the curve of her shoulder; he followed the path of his fingers with his lips, the sensation no more than a whisper, and she clenched her thighs in response, trying her best not to squirm and reveal more than she cared to. 

Jack’s touch was slow, insistent, focused; she watched him in the mirror, mesmerised by the intensity thrumming though him. She loved to watch him break, to find every crack in his facade and twist it, draw him from his self-inflicted restraint, but as he slowly undid the buttons that ran along the back of the dress, one knuckle bumping against her spine, she could see the appeal of experiencing the full force of his control. 

The gown slid down her body, pooling at her waist; Jack ran one finger over the silk of her slip, huffing a small laugh when she shifted. 

“Patience, Miss Fisher.”

She met his eyes in the mirror, her smirk a clear challenge. _Will you make it **worth** my patience, Jack Robinson?_

“Watching you tonight…” he began, his low voice washing over her, “the way you command the room, your wit, your confidence—” his fingers slid up her stomach, across her chest, skimming over clavicle, his lips against her ear, “—your passion for helping these women, Phryne, it’s…” she moved in the seat, a rocking of her hips as she sought relief for the sudden, desperate throbbing between her legs; he nipped her earlobe in response and she mewled, grasping the edge of the vanity to steady herself, “it is remarkably captivating.”

“Altruism is its own reward,” she quipped, “but it needn’t be the only one.”

She saw his amusement in the mirror, a flash quickly schooled. His hand paused, his body flush against her back, and he caught her eye in the mirror, one eyebrow carefully arched.

“And what precisely did you have in mind, Miss Fisher?” 

It was seductive but not studied, a game but sincere; her gut clenched with love for this man. She laid her hand over top of his, guiding it down, lifting her hips so the gown could be pushed to the floor. He stroked the inside of her thigh in a familiar pattern, one usually directed northwards; her body responded as if it was, a clench and a gasp and an ache, and he chuckled again.

“So little?” he teased. 

“Jack Robinson, I can make your life extremely miserable if you don’t—”

His hand was up the skirt of her slip, one long finger pressing against her knickers; her head dropped back and she exhaled sharply. He began to stroke again, the silk a delicious sensation against her clit, his lips against her ear as he murmured words of admiration. How clever she was, how resilient, how kind. The words washed over her like a second caress, his voice deliciously smooth as his fingers worked her with a delightful roughness; eventually she could bear it no longer and made some half-coherent plea for more as she ground against his touch. Silk was pushed aside and his fingers pressed inside her, hitting just the right spot — her eyes flew open as she came, voiceless and shuddering. Jack’s hold on her never wavered, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from her orgasm with a confidence that made her stomach swoop. 

When it passed she breathed deeply, looking at him through the mirror once more. The bastard had the audacity to look smug.

“Pleased with yourself, are you?” she asked, rolling her eyes and ignoring how her heartbeat hadn’t quite returned to normal.

He shrugged. “I would hate to leave you unsated, Miss Fisher, but I had doubts about your ability to rise at a suitable hour in the morning.”

“Did you now?” 

She turned and stood—her knees not quite as stable as she would have liked—and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him softly, tugging him towards the bed. They fell onto it together and she laughed.

“It was a very considerate thought,” she admitted, “but it failed to account for one thing.”

“And that is…?”

She smiled coyly, fingers on the buttons of his shirt.

“Why, Jack,” she purred, “I can hardly let that sort of altruism go unrewarded.”


End file.
